The Artifact Page 16

  A grin of satisfaction brightened the face of Eddie DiBiasio as he removed the earphones that enabled him to monitor the bugging device on the motorized wheelchair Andy had only recently condescended to use. He pressed the key on his cell phone that rang the clean line in the back room of the bakery on Atwell’s Avenue in the Federal Hill section of Providence, Rhode Island.

  When he heard the voice of his Uncle Vinnie, Eddie related the essence of the conversation he had overheard between the Madigan woman and her bodybuilder in her condominium. “Seems like they’re closing in on it.”

  “You done good, Eduardo. The big guy can lead you right to his experts, eh?”

  “Why not get his list and beat him to the punch?”

  Eddie could picture his uncle pulling at his lower lip in silence as he considered their options.

  “Cause he knows what questions to ask, can offer the reward and won’t have to do no rough stuff to get his answers. Let them do the work.”

  “Way ahead of me again, Uncle Vinnie.”

  “So keep track of him, and when he seems to have what he’s looking for, then take it from them.”

  “He could come up with exactly what pieces the profs are evaluating and who gave them the project.”

  Vincent Tomassi uttered muted grunt. “Now you’re cookin’ college boy.”

  Sammy had no luck trying to get passed the secretaries of the first four experts or questioning the individuals themselves he found in their office. He employed several strategies, from pretending he was a reporter with knowledge of the artifacts, to an army captain threatening repercussions for anyone aiding or abetting the thieves in their traitorous theft. Sam took a break to use the bathroom and for a bottle of soda water, wondering how he could improve his results. When he returned from the kitchen, Andrea spoke for the first time since he began calling.

  “Try pretending you’re calling for Geoff, asking when you can expect to receive the final authentication.”

  “I’d get tripped up easily by a guy who’s actually dealt with the perps.”

  “Don’t try getting through the secretaries,” she said, “befriend and quiz the secretaries.”

  Sammy waited for twelve-thirty in the time zone of the last two names on his list when most people would be at lunch. The antiquities department secretary of the first college he called told him that Professor Johnson was not at his desk, but would return after his one o’clock lecture.

  “Perhaps you can help me,” Sammy said. “I’m calling for Mr. Charles Geoff regarding the

  authentication project he working on for us and would like to know when he’ll be finished.”

  “Oh, you’d have to speak to the professor about that, sir. As you probably know, that’s an

  extremely complex and confidential translation he’s working on alone.”

  “Do you know about how many items he’s completed and how many more he has to go?”

  “I think he’s working on the last dozen pages, so it shouldn’t take him much longer.”

  “Thank you very much, ma’am, you’ve been really helpful,” Sammy said. “I won’t have to speak to Professor Johnson now after all.”.

  Sammy turned to Andrea as he broke the connection, a smile competing with an expression of bewilderment on his face. “It’s not a treasure of golden icons and precious gems after all. It’s a document these guys are translating from some ancient language into English, probably.”

  “What the hell kind of document could be so valuable that it’s worth all this subterfuge?”

  “The thugs trying to get it still think it’s golden icons and gems worth millions. But Callaghan must know it’s true value and think it’s worth whatever game he’s playing, including tanking his army career.”

  “Now we know what it is, we can force his hand.”

  “As soon as we can find him.”

  When Eddie overheard Sammy and Andrea’s speculation that the artifact was an ancient document, he called his Uncle Vinnie in Providence.

  “If it’s an ancient manuscript they had to translate,” Eddie ventured, “could be something like the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

  “Dead Sea don’t sound too valuable,” Uncle Vinnie said.

  “One of the Qumran texts written in the first century are like passages in the Bible some scholars think influenced the early Christians.”

  “So how do we make money on something like that?” Vincent Tomassi asked.

  “We could give to the Pope.”

  “Past ‘go’ get us right into heaven.”

  “Maybe they’re still selling indulgences.”

  “Wise guy.”

  “So what do you say, Uncle Vinnie?”

  “You got a point, College Boy. Keep me inna pitcha. Don’t get involved ‘til we know if we can turn this, capisce?”

  Andy’s peripheral vision noticed the television commercial end abruptly, cutting to a special news bulletin. She grabbed the TV remote and switched the sound on just as the attractive blond reporter began speaking with urgency as the image of the Albuquerque VA hospital loomed on the wall screen over her shoulder. “This just in. An unidentified patient was abducted from a Veterans’ Administration Mental Health Center in Albuquerque, New Mexico late last night by two men in black knit facemasks wielding automatic weapons. The victim is an Iraq War soldier recently transferred to the Albuquerque facility, with patient confidentiality protecting his name from release to the media. Bill Franklin, KAL-TV is on the scene with this live report. Bill?”

  Andrea’s hand jerked up to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

  “Marsha, this confounding and so far senseless abduction,” intoned the reporter, “was

  executed by two masked men in dark skin and cheap suits, who spoke with pronounced accents, according to VA staff witnesses.

  “At approximately twelve-thirty this morning, after the minimal night shift came on, the kidnappers forced the security guard to open the front door at gunpoint. They disabled the main telephone console and confiscated cell phones before the tallest of the intruders forced a nurse to accompany him into the hospital proper, while the other held several staff people hostage in the lobby. Minutes later the tall man returned with a patient whom they threatened to kill if the police were called in less than an hour.”

  “Mitchell!” Andrea exclaimed.

  Sammy exhaled a noisy breath. “The tail we picked up on the way back to the airport.”

  “We led them to him,” Andrea said. “That poor, deranged man.”

  The KAL-TV reporter was interviewing the Albuquerque chief of police. “We have roadblocks up around the city, but they had an hour head start. The security guard saw them drive off in a blue Chevy sedan but he didn’t get the plate number. It was rental we found abandoned in a Wal-Mart parking lot where we presume they had stashed another vehicle or stole one. We do have leads working, but this a kidnapping from a federal facility and the FBI will take over as soon as they show.”

  “From what I’ve heard so far,” the reporter added, “this doesn’t seem like a random snatch, does it, Chief?”

  “The kidnappers seemed to know exactly who they wanted. But due to patient confidentiality imposed by the head shrink, uh, psychiatrist, we don’t even know who that is yet.”

  “No name, no motive,” Franklin said.

  “I talked to the Bureau and U.S. Attorney. We’ll have a court order before sunup.”

  “Thank you, Chief Reynolds, for your candid assessment of this outrageous abduction of a

  mentally challenged veteran of our armed forces. Back to you, Marsha. This is Bill Franklin, KAL-TV, Albuquerque.”

  Sammy picked up the TV remote and pressed ‘mute.’

  Andrea sounded more hopeful than optimistic. “They’ll probably let him go when they see how loony he is.”

  “Who the hell are they?”

  “The same thugs that tried to roll me out under the tires of a truck last week.”

  “Not the army, shadowy government cre
eps.”

  “Doubt it. Or other news orgs.”

  “That leaves Iraqis, some criminal element.”

  “They want the treasure,” Andy said. “When they realize he’s spaced-out on religion without a clue to the artifact, there’d be no point in harming him.”

  Sammy grimaced. “Keep good thoughts.”

  Andrea wheeled across the room to the kitchen where she poured vodka into her glass, taking a deep slug of the clear liquid neat before returning to the living room. She stopped at the escritoire and punched a button on the phone to retrieve her messages.

  A couple of sympathetic calls from NNC employees, Frank Morrissey surprisingly among

  them; one from T.P. requesting a callback at home; and an unexpected summons to Dr. Lawton’s office at ten o’clock the following morning to discuss her test results from the Leahy Clinic.

  “Bad news, probably,” Andrea speculated.

  “Don’t be so pessimistic. How about a simple remedy, like some new miracle pill three times a day?”

  Andrea rubbed her eyes, exhausted emotionally and physically.

  Sammy stood up. “Let’s get some sleep. I can’t wait to toss and turn again on that lumpy

  couch you have the nerve to call a daybed.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Nashville, TN

  October 2004

  Alvarez stood at the window of The Maxwell House looking down at the milling crowd in the street below. He spoke without turning. “Maybe it was a mistake coming here.”

  “I want to visit highly religious areas,” Hannah said from the chair at the small desk at which she’d been making notes for her evening sermon. “Talking to complacent urbanites who don’t feel strongly about their religion won’t stir the pot.”

  Palagi was seated on the low credenza just inside the entryway. “Well, you certainly got it boiling here.”

  Alvarez continued to monitor the scene in front of the hotel. “Cops have their work cut out keeping those agitated hillbillies in line.”

  Hannah looked up from her notes to address Alvarez’s back. “Don’t criticize people for expressing their beliefs, Al. We’re trying to get them to feel just as strongly about my philosophy for practicing their religion as they do about following self-appointed clerical structures now.”

  During the past few months, particularly since NNC had aired Andrea’s interview with Hannah, the notoriety of the Preacher Lady had increased dramatically. The Sirius radio network assigned an audio team to record her every oration which they beamed around the world from their proprietary satellite Sunday mornings. Long-range video cameras and still photographers snapped her incessantly, adding provocative sound bites for continuous coverage by television news and print media. Sixty Minutes had sent a producer to line up an interview, to no avail. And major TV networks were attempting to negotiate a pilot broadcast of an entire Hannah sermon from their studios.

  At first somewhat passive, then vociferous crowds took to the streets around the world in protest of her controversial admonition to banish all religious organizations. A growing groundswell of Hannah supporters began to oppose her detractors in mostly peaceful encounters. In the United States, the ACLU joined the latter, advocating freedom of speech and religious expression. Scattered reports of civilian abuse by metropolitan and local law enforcement officers were being reported by local media across the country. Police and militia in predominantly Catholic South American and European nations were engaging Hannah sympathizers with harsh riot control tactics.

  Since owners of huge sports facilities capable of accommodating the thousands of curious and convinced throngs had denied her access to those arenas, Hannah had been speaking in large outdoor parks, vacant fields, retail parking lots, farmlands, beaches and roadside plains, with reluctant state troopers or deputy sheriffs added to her coterie of five assistants/protectors.

  Bogosian was admitted to the room by Conté, who helped him unpack the large white bag with the golden arches logo onto the round breakfast table. “You’re gonna kill us with all that grease,” Palagi said, moving to the sandwiches, fries and Cokes laid out on table.

  “Better than MRE’s,” Palagi quipped.

  Franks turned to the woman still writing at the desk. “Burger or fish, Hannah?”

  “Just a Coke for now, please. I need to finish this before we leave.”

  Hannah continued making notes for her evening sermon at the campus of Strayer College. Although city officials had tried to prevent her appearance in this avidly religious community, the students at Strayer had narrowly endorsed her lecture after she had been refused venue at The Grand Old Opry and Dominican run Aquinas University. She had not anticipated that her simple message would create the kind of opposition, much less animosity that she had encountered lately.

  Although confident that her inspiration for her message was God-sent and righteous, she had been examining her conscience recently to determine if something in her presentation or rationale could be altered to make her message more palatable. Rack her brain as hard as she might, there seemed to be no course other than the candid, forthright approach she had taken. Curtailing her preaching was out of the question. She was fairly confident where it would lead, but powerless to stop it. The scenario had been ordained by God and she was obliged to fulfill it. Perhaps she would have a fish sandwich after all.

  Seated side by side at the conference table in a small meeting room in Georgetown Hospital, they wondered why this venue was several doors down from Dr. Lawton’s windowless office in which Andrea had always met with her chief neurologist for her previous appointments. Before they could speculate on the meaning of this change of venue, Lawton entered the room followed by three other people in white lab coats. He introduced his resident, Dr. Virginia Ng, a young Asian woman with shiny black hair pleated in a long chignon. Dr. Gerald Clausen, a tall, thin man in his sixties, head of the department concerned with neural motor disorders, whose attempt to hide a pained expression was a complete failure. And Dr. Thomas Rizzo, a middle-aged man of fatalistic demeanor. The latter two physicians represented the team of specialists at the Leahy Clinic where Andy’s most extensive battery of tests had been administered.

  The four medical specialists arranged themselves in chairs on the opposite side of the table, all uncomfortable, their expressions dour. With the exception of Lawton, his three associates concentrated their attention on placing their thick manila file folders squarely on the surface of the table before them.

  “This does not seem like an auspicious event,” Andrea said.

  Dr. Lawton removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, the skin around his eyes pink from the aggressive massage or possibly emotion.. “The absolute worst part of my job.” He replaced the glasses, his gaze holding Andy’s as though they were the only two people in the room. “Twenty-three years and I still don’t know how to do it.”

  “I’m going to die, right Doc?”

  Sammy reached out to rest his fingers on the white knuckles of her hand gripping the arm of her wheelchair.

  “My colleagues and I have run every conceivable test. We have shared the results with other experts in several major hospitals around the country.”

  Andrea became rigid in her chair. “Cut to it, Doc. What have I got? How long?”

  “Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. A degenerative motor disease commonly known as ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “I would suggest you secure other opinions,” Lawton said, “but I’m afraid we’ve already consulted most of the top people in the field.”

  Andrea squeezed the lids tight over her eyes. “How long?”

  Dr. Ng’s voice was soft, filled with sadness, the expression of the young resident sympathetic, on the verge of tears. “The average is two to five years from onset of invasive symptoms, but could be considerably longer. British Physicist Stephen Hawking has survived almost twenty rears with the disease.”

&nb
sp; “Yeah,” Andrea replied, “hunched over in a wheelchair, speechless, and can barely use his fingers to type on a keyboard.”

  “I heard that a newspaper columnist up in Rhode Island continued to work for almost ten years after diagnosis,” Dr. Claussen said.

  “Two in a zillion!” Andrea said. “How long for me. I want to know!” Andrea’s expression flared at the medical people across the table. “I’m an on-camera news reporter, dammit!”

  Lawton refused to acknowledge her outburst. “Only time will tell how long you’ll be able to continue working. At some point you will have to modify your lifestyle.”

  Her eyes brimmed at the news and their attempts at reassurance. They were all silent as she fished a tissue from her purse and dabbed at the tears. Finally, she squared her shoulders, emitting a deep sigh, more in control. “Please do not try to protect me from the truth. I’ve been dealing with other people’s tragedies all my life. Do me the courtesy of allowing me to handle my own with knowledge and forethought.”

  Lawton shook his head in resignation. “You first consulted me in February, last, claiming you began to notice the initial symptoms, numb toes, the leg tremors the previous spring.”

  “I thought it was just some physical reaction to the stress I’d been going through since my tour in Afghanistan that would go away by itself. When it didn’t, I told my internist, Paul Fellows, who referred me to you.”

  “About nineteen months from first symptom to date.”

  Andrea clamped her eyelids shut again. “Sweet Jesus.”

  Sammy squeezed her hand harder as she focused on Lawton. “So, what happens between now and the big exit?”

  Dr. Rizzo stopped fingering his watch and looked at her. “ALS is a degenerative neurological disorder that usually attacks the extremities first, like your legs, arms, then the internal muscles and organs, the capacity for speech, and finally the diaphragm.”